


Por Toda Mi Vida

by Aelia_Gioia



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Character-typical racist and homophobic language, How Mickey gets home, M/M, Mickey in Mexico, mickey loves ian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29783991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelia_Gioia/pseuds/Aelia_Gioia
Summary: “What did you do, Ian? What the fuck did you do?” The words become like a chant, a mantra.With your chest heaving, your throat sore and your eyesight blurry, you look around at the destruction you left in your wake. Your legs are barely able to hold your weight as you try to stand and you have to sit on your bed. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the now broken mirror hanging on the wall. Thinking about Ian doing time makes your chest ache. You struggle to swallow a full gulp of air. Still looking at your own red face, you make the decision – not as if you gave yourself a choice – guess you weren’t going to need that new laptop after all.It's time to go home.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 17
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

You’ve always been a very simple man. 

You don’t need much and you don’t take up much space. Best guess is that 95% of the people you see on an average day don’t even notice you. 

And that’s by design, of course. 

People in hiding shouldn’t draw attention to themselves and you’ve learned to fly way under the radar. You got lots of practice as a kid. You grew up with nothing more than the absolute basics so you learned early how to steal shit and not get caught. You could cleanly pick a pocket by the fifth grade and your teachers were your earliest marks. At home, when your father was drunk or just in a bad mood (which was often), you were the smallest one besides your sister and you were not about to let her face Terry's wrath. Being noticed, getting attention often got you beaten on until you were big enough to fight back. And you did. A lot. Whatever. The past is the past. You’re not a fucking whiner. It made you resilient. Tough. Mean. Once you were a teenager, nobody in the neighborhood fucked with you. 

Being homeless in a foreign country would have posed a considerable problem to anyone but you’re resourceful and growing up where you came from also taught you survival skills. You can scheme with the best of them. 

Within a month of arriving, you had a place to live and got set up with a group of low on the totem pole idiots who weren’t cutting their coke enough and could have been making hundreds more every day. If you learned anything while sitting at your family dinner table, you learned how much you could step on a key of coke and still turn a profit. After sampling half a gram yourself, you were ballsy enough to point it out and impressed them. They took your advice and the whole operation started making more money almost immediately. 

Guys on vacation, more than the occasional bachelor party, the spring break crowd – this became your customer base. 

Let Joselito with the shaved head and neck tats deal with the locals; white guys looking for drugs were afraid of him. 

But you? 

You didn’t appear to be a physical threat to them. They could look into your blue eyes and see your Eastern European complexion and for some reason they trusted that you weren’t selling them a baggy full of poison. They didn’t need to know that you’d just as soon knock their teeth out and not feel the least bit of regret. They also didn’t need to know that they paid more for buying from you. Those fucking annoying “woke” people on TV would call it unconscious bias; you called it the Gringo Tax and used racism in your favor. 

Rather than object, the homeboys thought it was hilarious. They got a cut of whatever you brought in anyway. If some fucking asshat hipster kids coming down to Mexico for a weekend were too pussy to approach an intimidating cholo, you were more than happy to accept their business. Your horizons broadened somewhat when you mentioned having been a pimp at one point. You showed your duel usefulness standing on a street corner negotiating prices in English for the cartel’s girls. 

And that’s pretty much how it went for a few years. You kept your head down, your nose clean and pretty soon you had a small crew of your own taking orders from _El Gringo Sucio_. It wasn’t perfect, but you had a roof over your head, food in your belly, and regular money coming in. You made it work and were actually pretty contented. 

Until that goddamned day. 

You are in your usual spot in the market – not the Whole fucking Foods kind of market – the crowded, outdoor, if-you-can't-find-it-here-it-probably-doesn't-exist market. Dealing drugs isn’t the kind of work where you had an actual shift or anything but you are counting down the minutes before you’d let yourself go “off-duty” to grab a beer and maybe a tamale. You are seconds away when two fucking white bread homos come walking by. These motherfuckers have that wide-eyed “WE’RE LOOKING FOR DRUGS” look written all over their faces. You are honestly surprised and maybe even a little impressed that they’d wandered so far from their hotel without getting their asses handed to them. 

You hang back and pull your hood over your head. With your hand in your pocket, you feel the wad of cash and are wondering how much you could get out of them when you notice the t-shirt the curly headed one is wearing. At first, you think it's a trick of the light – or maybe your eyes are seeing what they want to see. Once they get close, it's undeniable; you practically know that face better than you know your own. It delivers a punch directly to your gut but you clench your jaw and don’t let any recognition show on your face. 

One of them steps to Joselito but he apparently breathes at him in a frightening way and the skinny twink retreats. The pair look almost cartoonish as they nearly trip over each other as they start to skitter away like scared mice. You exhale a puff of cigarette smoke and step out of the shade of the tent. 

“Lookin’ for somethin’?” 

“The guy at our hotel sent us?” One of them says.

 _Are you asking me, or telling me, fuckhead?_

“We’re looking for party favors,” the other adds.

 _Christ. This is gonna be the biggest Gringo Tax you’ve charged all day._

“Like what?” 

“E.” 

“Fifty a pill.” 

“We’ll take 10.”

_HA. You should have asked for seventy-five._

Homo Number One pays you and actually expects you to be holding. Moron. Money and drugs are separate. Joselito counts out ten rolls and hands them over. 

“What’s with your shirt?” You casually ask Homo Number Two, the one with the backpack. 

“Gay Jesus. This guy going to prison in Chicago. Blew up a van to keep queers from being converted.” 

You don't say anything else. That beer you were so looking forward to is now going to be shots instead, something to settle your nerves. And there is no way you’ll be able to eat. 

“Fucking Gallagher,” you say to yourself while walking towards the nearest bar. 

You boot up your computer as soon as you get back to your one-room accommodation. To call it a studio apartment would make it sound too opulent. The creaky old laptop is on its last leg; every time you used it, you half expected it to die on you before you finished whatever you were doing. 

“C’mon...c’mon...” You’re talking to it out loud, coaching it, anxiously tapping your fingers on your thigh. The home screen is loading slowly and you breathe a sigh of relief as one by one the icons appear. You make a mental note to yourself to just bite the damn bullet and buy a new fucking computer already. You have the money - your cut of the pills you sold to the Homos alone would pay for a newer one; stolen laptops were easy enough to come by. 

Opening an internet search window your fingers shake as you prepare to type. The WIFI in your building sucks. You can feel yourself aging waiting for the connection. You finally unplug the computer and carry it over to the open window. Maybe you’d be able to pick up the signal from the internet café on the next block. You couldn’t do this search there; it was usually full of tourists who couldn’t be away from their precious fucking social media accounts for five seconds. Sometimes it was tolerable to go to the café, get what they called “American” coffee and eat a sandwich listening to the mostly English-speaking tourists; you’d even found some customers there. For this though - you needed privacy. You needed to be alone. 

Once you plug the charger into an outlet nearer the window, you balance the laptop on your knees. Your windowsill perch isn’t comfortable but you do what you have to do. You check the list of available networks and someone nearby seems to have a very powerful hotspot because it was showing you three bars even though you were three floors up from the street. Hoping that they would stay put for a while, you connect to the unsecured network and refresh the browser. 

Finally connected, you close your eyes and exhale; your lips are a tight circle as you blow the air out of your mouth. You type: 

Ian Gallagher 

No, too many results. You suppose it is a common-ish name. So many goddamned Irish Catholics running around. But you were looking for a very, very specific Ian Gallagher. 

_Your_ Ian Gallagher. 

You decide to narrow the search results: 

Ian Gallagher – Chicago, IL 

_Jesus Christ how the hell many of them are there?!_ Clicking through page after page of LinkedIn profiles and Facebook posts of men who were most definitely not the one you were looking for, you’re almost ready to give up. Your lips become a taut, thin line as you concentrate. You massage your temples trying to remember – what did that sissy kid say about his t-shirt? A proverbial lightbulb goes off in your head and you think of one last search term: 

Gay Jesus 

There he is. 

You’re suddenly staring at a large color photo of him and your heart nearly stops. There are a few more photos at the top of the search results that you can’t pull your eyes off of. 

His hair is both cut and styled different. He’s bulked up since you saw him last; making the most of his tall, lean frame. His shoulders are broader, his arms more muscular. You see a close up of him and his eyes look wild. You’ve seen that particular wildness in his eyes before and you recognize it right away – he's off his meds. 

You clear your throat and see there are a lot of news articles coming up in your search, you start scrolling through headlines. 

Chicago Youth Leader Heading to Court 

‘Gay Jesus’ Saved Me, says Teen 

Family Makes Appeal for Psychiatric Review in ‘Gay Jesus’ Van Explosion Case 

Chicago’s ‘Gay Jesus’- Lunatic or Prophet? 

‘Gay Jesus’ Case Questions the Morality of Conversion Therapy 

‘Gay Jesus’ Enters Guilty/Insanity Plea 

Two Years for ‘Gay Jesus’ Ian Gallagher 

You drag both of your hands through your hair, scraping your short nails against your scalp and you exhale heavily again. Your hands reach the back of your neck, you close your eyes and squeeze them shut. 

“Fucking Christ, Ian,” you whisper to yourself. 

For the next two hours, you’re reading article after article. The hotspot you’d first connected to was long gone but the WIFI from the internet café was sufficient for now. Most of the articles were rehashing the same information. One of them made Ian out to be some kind of deranged gay cult leader planning on killing every straight person he came in contact with. 

By the time the signal does go out on you, you’ve got the gist. Ian went off his meds, blew up a fucking van and was going to prison. 

You close the laptop and are very still for a few moments. Ian belongs in the hospital, not prison; _not fucking prison_ . How the _fuck_ did this happen? How the fuck did his family _let_ this happen? He’s tough but not tough enough; he’s never even done a day in juvie. He’s not going to do well at Beckman – somebody's going to hurt him. You can’t even get in touch with your dad to get his Nazi buddies to protect him. Not that Terry would lift a finger to help Ian anyway; you might even inadvertently put a target on his back. Fuck. What if he dies in prison? You’ve only been able to get through your days in exile picturing Ian doing well – knowing how far down he’s gone is intolerable. You feel the speeding freight train full of rage charging out of your belly and out of your mouth as you start shouting. Your laptop is hurled across the room; it strikes the wall and lands hard on the floor – the screen shatters and lettered keys flying off in every direction. 

With a crazed sweep of your arms, you clear off the surface of your small bureau, then your nightstand. Your glass still half full of juice from breakfast shatters when it hits the kitchen wall. It’s as close to an out of body experience as you've ever had other than the few times you've taken Special K. You’re watching yourself lose control from above and you're like a cyclone, destroying everything that isn’t nailed down. Your foot catches on the threadbare old rug under your bed and you fall on your face; which forces you back into your body and everything hurts. The tears are freely flowing now, your angry shouts are coming out in heavy sobs as you pound both fists on the floor. Rolling to your side you’re trying to catch your breath before sitting up. You wrap your arms around yourself and start mindlessly rocking as you quiet down. 

“What did you do, Ian? What the fuck did you do?” The words become like a chant, a mantra. 

With your chest heaving, your throat sore and your eyesight blurry, you look around at the destruction you left in your wake. Your legs are barely able to hold your weight as you try to stand and you have to sit on your bed. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the now broken mirror hanging on the wall. Thinking about Ian doing time makes your chest ache. You struggle to swallow a full gulp of air. Still looking at your own red face, you make the decision – not as if you gave yourself a choice – guess you weren’t going to need that new laptop after all. 

It's time to go home. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You purse your lips. There was a small chance that the DEA already had the intel you were willing to share and you'd have to give something else up. Something much bigger. 
> 
> “A delivery. Big one. Pure. Straight from La Paz.” 
> 
> His eyebrow popping up makes your heart rattle your ribcage. He didn't know about it. 

Days pass and you aren’t coming up with a feasible plan. 

You could get a passport under your alias but you don’t want to risk flying back. If you are caught somewhere along the way from Mazatlan International to O’Hare – who knows where you might end up. No great loss there – the idea of getting on a plane makes you queasy. 

Driving would present a similar problem. Things could be going great until some backwoods cop in Bumfuck, Texas or Inbred, Louisiana pulled you over for a broken tail light or some other shit and you could be found out. You had already discounted volunteering to join one of the groups of people the cartel’s coyotes were sneaking over the border as well as making yourself a mule. You’d seen both of those scenarios go sideways – fast. Somebody’s kid cries at night or some idiot doesn’t tie a balloon full of heroin tight enough and it’d be all over. 

Because you know that getting back to Chicago isn’t going to be enough. If you are going to protect Ian, you have to get close to him and that means getting locked up with him. 

“ _Cervesa, hermano_?” Guillermo asks as he lets his empty beer bottle hit the rickety table. 

“No. _No mas_.” You reply with a wave of your hand. It’s hot as balls and you’re miserable. Every inch of your exposed skin is sticking to everything. The parts of you covered by your shorts and sleeveless t-shirt are wet. Sweat is rolling from between your shoulder blades down the crack of your ass and you’ve never missed the snowy, icy, freezing Chicago winters more. You’re in a bar drinking in an attempt to cool off but all you are getting is bloated and drunk. You’re no closer to figuring out how the hell you’re going to get home. 

Guillermo burps into his fist and jerks his head to the side in that repetitive motion he makes seventy-five fucking times a day to crack his neck. Something catches his eye and he scoffs. 

“ _Que chingados.”_

“What’s wrong?” you ask, finishing your drink. 

“ _Pinche pendejo_ DEA,” he replies gesturing behind him with his thumb. His voice is a low growl. “Sitting at the bar in the _camisa_ _roja_.” 

Your eyebrows go up a little in unison. You are used to looking over your shoulder, never knowing who might be standing there. Hell, growing up in your old neighborhood you couldn’t have turned out any other way. If anything, you've relaxed a little bit since starting your life over in Sinaloa. You know they were watching the cartel bosses but you aren’t high up enough on the food chain to have spent any amount of time worrying about DEA up to this point. This agent, or agents, is obviously there because of Guillermo. 

In the way that things just sort of happen to you in your life, this frightening-looking guy with his big, round belly, cowboy boots, and twin Berettas who was straight out of a Pablo Escobar documentary took a liking to you. 

Back when you first started out with the cartel you were building a reputation of being a hard worker. They said you weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty (hence your nickname). One Saturday night you were supposed to be negotiating prices for five different whores outside of a motel and a tourist insulted one of your girls, grabbed her tit and called her used up and saggy. She didn’t speak enough English to understand what he’d said but the disgusted tone of his comment translated all too well. You told him to shut the fuck up and move on but he chose to get mouthier with you so you reacted. You headbutted the jerkoff and proceeded to kick him in the stomach until somebody else pulled you off of him. 

Guillermo’s imposing sudden presence kept the fight from escalating further. The tourist got up to his feet, took one look at you, shouting and spitting like a rabid animal and ran off as fast as his feet could carry him. 

“Yeah, keep runnin’ motherfucker!” You called after him. Whoever was holding you back let go of your arms and you stumbled forward. 

Guillermo pulled a blue handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to you to wipe the dude’s blood off of your hands while he laughed heartily at your “ _huevos gigantes_ ” and then he bought you a beer. You knew who he was by reputation, several hierarchical levels higher than yourself, a mere street corner slinger and occasional pimp. He said he liked the way you talked; your take no shit, blunt as a brick manner. He liked that you didn’t cower or defer to him without being disrespectful. Ever since that night, he brought you into his inner circle – a place not many low-level dealers would ever find themselves. He found out about the shithole you lived in and got you into a slightly more upscale shithole – at least in your new place you could leave and be confident that nobody was going to break in and take your shit. Guillermo put a protective shield around you and you were practically untouchable. Even after he found out about one of your many, _many_ secrets, he accepted you and called you _hermano_ in front of others who would have gladly tried to take a metal pipe to the back of the head of any _maricon_ they met. For whatever reason, you were safe with this truly unsafe man. 

And now; you are thinking about betraying him. 

“ _Voy al_ _baño_ _,”_ you say, standing up. Guillermo nods and whistles for the server, who brought over another bucket of ice-cold bottled beer. You pass by the person he suspected was an agent and he is absolutely taking note of you as you got up from the table. You pat your hands on your jeans, making sure you had a pen on you. 

In the stinking bathroom stall, you quickly write a note on a piece of toilet paper. Your hand is shaking as you held your dick to piss. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you flush and push the note into your pocket. You quickly wash your hands and try looking yourself in the mirror but just can’t do it. 

Just as you’re leaving the bathroom, Guillermo rises up from the table you’d been sitting at together and you watch him pull a cigarette out of the pack that was always in his back right pocket. He could smoke in the bar, not like anybody would tell him not to, but he hates indoor smoking. It struck you funny that this guy who you’d seen take a claw hammer to somebody’s head didn’t like smelling like cigarettes. You have to time this just right; it was going to be your only opportunity. 

You exhale through your nose and approach the bar, finding an open barstool right next to _Camisa Roja_. With Guillermo stepping outside to smoke, your time comes. You accidentally-on-purpose nudge the agent’s elbow. He turns suddenly, surprise is in his eyes when he sees you there. 

“Fucking hot,” you say to him. He seems to question if he should reply at all, but he does. 

“Sure is.” 

“ _Dos tequilas por favor_ ,” you call to the bartender. He’d seen you enter the bar with Guillermo so he immediately drops what he was doing for another customer and brings you your shots. That sort of service happened a lot; everywhere you went. People didn't know quite why but they knew that a sicario had taken a liking to you so they bent over backward to shower you with extra courtesy. Nodding your thanks to the bartender, you turn one shot glass around in your hand, reaching for the wad of pesos in your pocket. You knew nobody would say anything to you if you left without paying, but you always paid for yourself. The note came out of your pocket along with enough money for the shots and a tip for the bartender. You took the first shot, casually eyeing the man standing next to you, sizing him up, watching him notice the note. 

“You dropped something,” _Camisa Roja_ says to you. 

“I didn’t drop shit, get your eyes checked,” you reply taking the second shot and walking away to join Guillermo outside for a smoke. 

You don’t see him put his hand over the folded piece of toilet paper, you don’t see him read it after you’ve left the bar. 

You just know what you’d written on it. 

_The Beavertail 7pm_

The strip club, known to locals as _la cola de castor_ because of the shape of the main stage, was one of the few places in Culiacan where you could get a lap dance and a tug job or a quick bang from a white girl without needing to pre-book a penicillin shot. It isn’t exactly a tourist hot spot but you and the agent wouldn’t stand out as the only two white guys in the place. 

It isn’t cartel-owned or operated so the crews don’t go there much, preferring to frequent the places they knew they were in control of; it was also two and a half hours away from your comfort zone in Mazatlan - so it was perfect for your meet up. You’ve occasionally done business here before; half the dancers are cokeheads. Management turns a blind eye to narcotic sales because customers zooted the fuck out on coke stayed longer, tipped bigger and drank more. 

“ _Gringo!_ The hell've you been, _cabroncito_?!” The bouncer laughs when he sees you. You allow a small smile flashing teeth and nod his way as he lets you in. You order a beer and set yourself up in a corner where nobody is at your back and nobody can walk in without you seeing them. 

As soon as he arrives, your heart rate increases. He is looking around for you and a significant part of you wants to duck out the back door and forget the whole thing, but you can’t do it. You know you have to follow this through. 

He sees you and you both nod acknowledgement of each other. Right as he sits in the booth with you, a barely-legal stripper wearing a skimpy gold bikini approaches. 

“Private dance, gentlemen?” She is soft-spoken and looks a little spacey. Probably came here on Spring Break, got caught up in some shit she couldn’t handle and never went home. 

“Not just now, darlin’ thanks,” he says giving her a winning smile. His Deep South accent surprises you. “Couple of beers would be good though.” She leaves and returns minutes later with the drinks, neither of you have spoken to each other yet. Drinks in hand, he speaks. 

“What’s this about? I’m here.” 

“I gotta go home,” you tell him. 

He takes a sip of his drink appearing thoughtful but is obviously waiting for you to continue before replying. 

“And why do you think I can do that for you?” He tries playing oblivious. 

“You people stick out like a sore fuckin’ thumb, you know that? Like, you don’t even try to hide it.” 

“You people?” 

You suck one cheek in and bite down. “We both know you’re not on fuckin’ vacation.” 

He swallows hard, his nostrils flaring. There’s the slightest tinge of fear in his eyes. Fear that it’s a set-up, fear that his luck has run out. He coughs into his fist and takes a longer sip of beer while he thinks over what to say next. 

“ _El Gringo Sucio_ wants to go back to Chicago?” He asks. Your eyebrows shoot up your forehead and it makes him laugh. 

“Yeah. Didn’t think we knew who you were, did you Michael?” 

The name he calls you quells your fear a little – they don’t know as much as they think they do. 

“S’not my name,” you reply. 

“Gotta say, it’s rare for someone in your position to be known to us at the agency. All y’all are like the disposable red shirts on Star Trek. But for some reason Guillermo likes you. Like a court jester, or a pet dog,” he snarls. “But Michael Gallagher, aka _El Gringo Sucio_ of Chicago. That’s you.” 

You allow one side of your mouth to curl up into a grin. “Then you know why I _can’t_ go home.” 

He blanches before he can bluff. 

You know you can toy with him a little longer but you need his help. You also don't want to be there any longer than necessary, risking being seen with him. It would be just your luck that someone connected to the cartel would see the two of you talking and run back to snitch. You remove your wallet from your pocket and slide one ID across the table to him. 

It reads ‘Michael Gallagher’, the name you've been using since just after you’d crossed the border. The one-and-only time being Terry Milkovich’s kid was to your advantage, Terry’s connection got you IDs fairly quickly. Your landlady has that name along with everyone else who knows you. The agent picks up your ID and in examining it closely, he must have seen something wasn’t quite right with it. You watch his eyebrows come together in confusion when he looks back up at you. In response to the question he is asking you with his eyes, you pull a second ID out of your wallet. You pause, knowing there is really absolutely no turning back from this moment forward. 

You slide it face down across the table to him while your eyes dart around the room, checking that nobody was looking your way. 

He glances casually over his shoulder before picking it up and he looks at it. 

“Mikhailo Milkovich,” he says softly, struggling through the correct pronunciation of your name. “Bratva?” 

You laugh, feeling more relaxed for the first time. “Nah. I'm nobody; just a fucking white trash asshole gringo from the South Side.” 

He smiles. “Just curious. Why ‘Gallagher’? Why'd you go Irish when you're Russian?” 

“I’m _Ukrainian_ ,” you correct him. 

“As if there’s a difference,” he replies with a dismissive flick of his wrist. 

“There is, if you ask my dad.” 

“Alright so you're in over your head, or you’re having a crisis of conscience, or whatever other reason you've got – and you want to sell out your _compadres_ to run home to Mama, huh?” 

“None of the above, actually,” you snap. You feel the fire burning in your eyes but you have to force yourself to extinguish it; repeatedly reminding yourself that he is a means to an end. “I'm wanted. I gotta go home and I want to make a deal.” 

“Ok. I can’t make anything happen without bringing in my supervisor. We need to know what info you have. We need to know who you are. And what's your legal situation- you said you're wanted. You're not some serial killer are you?” You can tell he’s only half-joking. 

“No. I broke out of prison. I was doing a bid for attempted murder.” 

He inhales deeply and sits way back in his seat. “Who'd you try to kill? Your girlfriend? Hookers? A bunch of nuns?” 

You laugh. They _really_ don't know as much about you as he'd tried to convince you they knew. “Nah. My partner's no good, bitch-ass sister.” 

“Partner? Your running partner?” You shake your head. As if you'd ever have a drug-running partner. You've always been a lone wolf. 

“Boyfriend, ok? My boyfriend – _ex boyfriend_ ’ _s_ sister. Or rather…his...cousin, I guess. I dunno. His family’s real fucked up.” 

“So an escape charge, fleeing. In addition to attempted murder, plus whatever you've done down here. That all? You’d better tell me now – because it’ll just be more difficult to get you a deal if there’s more you're not telling me.” 

“That’s all,” you tell him. 

He nods, obviously letting his wheels turn. “And what can you give us in return? The only reason I'm even talking to you is because you're with Guillermo. My superiors ain’t going to endanger lives of any agents for nickel and dime bullshit.” He sounds interested but not particularly hopeful that you have access to anything of evidentiary value. 

You purse your lips. There was a small chance that the DEA already had the intel you were willing to share and you'd have to give something else up. Something much bigger. 

“A delivery. Big one. Pure. Straight from La Paz.” 

His eyebrow popping up makes your heart rattle your ribcage. He didn't know about it. 

“How big?” 

“I don’t know exactly. A metric fuckload according to Guillermo,” saying his name out loud causes you actual, physical pain in your gut. 

“When?” 

“Soon.” 

“Where?” 

You exhale and tap your finger on the table. Shaking your head, you reply. “Show me my deal and I’ll tell you.” You curl your finger indicating that you want him to return your IDs. 

He nods. “I almost had you there for a second.” He grinned at you and chuckled at his own joke. 

_The fuck you did pendejo,_ you think, grinning back at him. 

“You'll give us the exact date, time and location of the delivery in exchange for extradition back to Chi-town? That it?” 

_Chi-town. What a cunt_. You’d really love to take a swing at this tool if your deal doesn't depend on him. Maybe if it didn't work out, smacking him down to the ground and stomping on his sternum could be your consolation prize while you figure out what other options you had. 

“Ok,” he carefully slides both of your IDs back to you and you put them away. “I can't promise anything but I'll talk to my superiors. How do I get in touch with you?” 

“Text my burner,” you reply and write the number down on a keno card from the table. He takes the number and says he’ll be in touch with you. He quickly studies it, committing the number to memory before tearing the paper to pieces and dropping the pieces into the flame of the candle on the table. You finish your drinks in silence and pretend to be paying attention to the closest stripper working the hell out of a pole. When she finishes, he stands from the table. 

“ _Va_ _cuidado_ _,_ Mikhailo Milkovich, _”_ He says. You stay stock still in your seat watching him leave. 

You didn't pray. All that Catholic Santa Maria Jesu Cristo mumbo-jumbo the Mexican guys spouted at you was gibberish. But in that moment, you came very, very close to praying that everything would work out and you could get back home. 

“I’m coming, Ian. I’m coming.” 

As you lay in bed that night, you have to force yourself to sleep. The crisis of conscience the agent mentioned wasn’t the reason you were going home but you sure as fuck were feeling guilty about betraying the man who'd vouched for you and trusted you. In the end, though -it wasn’t even close. Between Guillermo and Ian, it would be Ian every single time. You dream of a faceless, tall redheaded man always just out of reach no matter how far you stretch out your arms for him. You realize in the seconds before you were fully conscious that his hair wasn't red; his head was on fire. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You nod and sip your drink. “You want information, I want to go home. We can help each other.” 
> 
> The agents look at each other. 
> 
> “Terms?” Cooper folds his hands on the table. 
> 
> “I just wanna go home, man. If I could get there on my own, I would have done it already.” 
> 
> “So you want a pardon? Immunity?” 
> 
> You cock your head at him. “A pardon? No. I want to go to prison.” 

Days later the burner still hasn’t rung. You are diligent about keeping it charged and in your pocket so there would be no delay in answering when the call came in. The longer you have to wait, the more desperate you are feeling. According to what you’ve read online, Ian would be reporting to Beckman soon to begin his sentence. The delivery isn’t far away and every second that ticks by makes it less likely that you’ll be able to strike any kind of useful deal with DEA.

“Mickey -  _ que paso _ ?” Guillermo asks, hitting you with his elbow. You don’t have a fucking clue where the conversation has gone after you’d gotten distracted. 

“ _ Nada, nada,” _ you wave your hand dismissively. “ _ Lo  _ _ siento _ _.” _

_ “No se  _ _ preocupe _ _ ,  _ _ cabron _ _ ,”  _ Guillermo claps you on the back and laughs. You understand plenty of Spanish and speak enough of it to get by but between paying attention to a conversation about some shit that didn’t matter and thinking about getting back to Ian, there is no contest.

You almost don’t register why your pocket is vibrating for a few seconds. It occurs to you that it’s the burner and you jump up from the table, nearly knocking over the beer in front of you. That crowded cantina is practically Guillermo’s office, nobody at the surrounding tables even notices your odd behavior. 

Pedro and Javier, however, do. They whisper something to each other and give you a dirty look. It’s nothing new. You know very well that the only reason they didn’t take a shot at you is your relationship with Guillermo.

_ Fuck the both of them. _

You excuse yourself and step away from the table with permission. 

“’Lo?”

“Tomorrow. Same place. Six-thirty.”

The speaker’s message is brief but clear. You are going to have to think fast because you know Guillermo expects you and Javier to prepare a couple of mules heading to the border crossing and drop them off. It isn’t your favorite task anyway. The newbies struggle and gag hard when they’re trying to swallow the bindles. Besides that, being close to so many American cops at the border makes you nervous that you’d be recognized.

Even after the call disconnects, you pretend to talk to someone, just to not arouse anybody’s suspicions. You hang up and exhale deeply on the walk back to the table.

“Problem  _ cabron?”  _

You shake your head, replying  _ “No, nada.”  _ Your palms are sweating and you try to casually wipe them off on your jeans as you sit back down. You drown yourself in beers while the conversation continues around you. How the hell are you going to get out of going on a border run in order to meet up with the DEA?

The whole scene suddenly strikes you as hilariously ridiculous and you have to force yourself to cough to block off the laughing struggling to bust out of your throat. Your life turned sideways the second Ian stepped into it. The odds of you ending up in Mexico working for a cartel weren’t that bad, but you never could have imagined that you’d be in this situation, desperate to get home.

Of course you think of Ian. You think of him approximately once a day – having someone on your mind all day, every day counts as once and you are happy to stick with that conviction, thank you very fucking much.

Every redheaded guy you see – which aren’t many – makes your heart drop into your stomach and you are reluctant to go to sleep afterwards. You know the dream is coming. The reoccurring dream of Ian. 

It always starts off the same way. You’re at one of the open-air markets in Mazatlan, just like the one you were in when you found out about Gay Jesus. You can smell the delicious scent of your favorite tamales mixing with all of the other smells in the air. You know this spot well; you spend a lot of time here supervising dealers and watching out for trouble. The crowds of cruise ship tourists part and as if you're in some cheesy-ass romcom, you look up to see Ian standing fifteen feet away from you. He’s smiling his big, dopey smile that makes your heart and your dick ache.

Usually, this is where you realize you're dreaming and everything gets wonky and distorted until your eyes open. Sometimes you walk towards each other and it feels like there’s concrete in your boots before you wake up. Sometimes you fight to stay asleep long enough to have his muscly arms draped over your shoulders. You can feel him, you can smell him. You’re confronting his beautiful face after being apart for way too long. 

You say, “where the hell’ve you been, Gallagher?” and he smirks at you. His light lashes flutter and he moves in to kiss you. 

You always wake up before your lips meet.

Even though you’re hard as a rock when you wake up alone in bed, you’re too depressed to do anything about it. You stare at the ceiling, missing him.

It’s a completely fucked up feeling. It’s so good to see him in your dreams (as fucking gay as it is to admit that to yourself). At the exact same time, your guts are churning because every time you dream of that freckled ginger bastard, he’s torn away from you and you grieve the loss all over again.

You come out of your reverie when Guillermo slaps you on the back and you choke on the sip of beer you just took. You look around the table and clearly, you missed something. They’re all looking at you like they expect you to say something. 

Guillermo laughs, knowing you aren’t paying attention. 

“Mickey, take the night off. Pedro can take your place tonight. You look sick,  _ hermano _ ,” he says as he squeezes the back of your neck so hard it feels like your eyeballs are going to pop out of your skull.

“I um…yeah. I don’t feel too good,” you say putting a hand on your stomach as an afterthought. As you’re turning your head, you see Pedro and Javier make eye contact with each other and you know they're suspicious immediately. 

“Don Guillermo -” Pedro begins.

“You’re still not used to the heat,” Guillermo says with a smirk. “You miss the snow?” 

You get an eerie feeling, like he can read your mind but you shake it off. Trying to school your facial expression you force a smile. “Yeah, I'm sweating my fuckin ass off.”

The fat sicario throws his head back, laughing. “Go home, sleep it off.”

You finish your drink and drop some money on the table before you leave. As you start making the ten minute walk home, you light a cigarette and plan your suddenly free night. You can shower, change and have plenty of time to get to Culiacan for the meeting. 

When you stop off to buy a bottle of water, you see something in the corner of your eye. 

Pedro’s following you. You’re sure you see him duck out of sight, not expecting you to stop walking when you did.

You narrow your eyes and stay still, waiting for him to peek out to check where you are. When he does, you’re staring right at him. You cross your arms and raise an eyebrow at him. Sure, being suspicious of you was justified but you couldn’t risk the whole thing blowing up in your face by not pretending like you had no idea why he was following you.

He makes a tight fist as he approaches.

“What’s up? You following me?” You ask.

“Just watch your back. We don’t like how you’re acting.” He pokes you in the chest.

“It’s a fucking good thing your opinion doesn’t mean a damn thing, huh?” He’s got at least 6 inches on you but you’re not about to back down. Fuck him.

He hisses at you through gritted teeth. “Accidents happen,  _ maricon _ . Be careful out there.”

You lock the door and the deadbolt when you get home before you shower. When you step back outside, you check the street and don’t see anything out of the ordinary; nobody’s watching you, waiting for you to leave. 

Buzzing with anxiety, you make the two-hour drive and park in the lot of The Beavertail. You’re a little early and the agent is already there when you arrive, sitting at the same table you’d chosen the first time. He’s got someone else with him that looks less like a Fed.

Beer in hand you wander around a little, pretending to admire the strippers. After a lap, you’re confident that you don’t know anybody in the place and you slide into the seat across from the agent.

“Mikhailo -”

“Mickey,” you say.

“Mickey - this is my supervisor. He’s the one who can get you your deal. Shoot straight with us, we’ll shoot straight with you,” the agent says, it occurs to you that you still don’t know his name.

“Supervisory Special Agent Phil Cooper,” the supervisor introduces himself. “Agent Wilson here tells me you’ve got a problem we can help you with.”

You nod and sip your drink. “You want information, I want to go home. We can help each other.”

The agents look at each other.

“Terms?” Cooper folds his hands on the table.

“I just wanna go home, man. If I could get there on my own, I would have done it already.”

“So you want a pardon? Immunity?”

You cock your head at him. “A pardon? No. I want to go to prison.”

“Excuse me?”

“I got my reasons, ok? I’ll give you the lowdown on a delivery of blow, you let me pick what prison I go to to serve out my sentence,” you sit back and cross your arms.

They look at each other again, clearly thinking that you’re the dumbest son of a bitch ever born. They looked up your record. If you have the information that they think you have, you could easily get a pardon – there was no need to go back to prison.

“You’re informing on the cartel and your reward is prison? I’m missing something,” Cooper says.

“I don’t want no special treatment. I don’t feel good about doing this shit but it’s gotta be done. I’ll spell it out for you: get me back to Chicago, into Beckman Correctional and I’ll tell you everything.” 

During the period of silence that follows, you shift in your seat and tap your thumb on the table; a metronomic indicator of your quickly rising blood pressure and impatience. They’re talking to each other, whispering so softly you’re not even sure how they can hear each other over the blaring music in the club. You’re trying to keep an eye on the door, the crowd, and the agents.

“When’s the delivery happening?” the agent you now know as “Wilson” asks you.

You shrug. “I dunno. Seeing my deal in writing will sure jog my memory though.”

Wilson chews the inside of his cheek and looks at Cooper. It’s a few seconds before he speaks.

“I’ll get the paperwork drawn up. You don’t get anything if we don’t get our collars, is that clear?”

“Yeah, clear.”

“And no qualms about rolling on your boss?” Wilson asks.

Some of the color drains from your face. “Plenty of them. But that’s my problem now, isn’t it?”

“Just wondering what would make you so eager to snitch.”

“I  ain’t a snitch,” you make a fist under the table. 

“You are, though,” Wilson challenges you and folds his hands together on the table.

You can deny it all you want but that’s exactly what you are.

“Look, do you want the info or fuckin’ not? Because I’m riskin’ my ass just being here.”

“It’ll have to happen fast...” Agent Cooper interrupts the stand-off before it escalates and proceeds to explain how they’re going to bring you in under the pretense of an arrest so the cartel won’t know you’re an informant right away. There’s no way to remain completely anonymous – you're offering good intel but not witness protection level good. That would defeat the whole purpose anyway.

You’re nodding robotically as you listen. It all feels so possible.

“What’s our timeline? Can you give me some idea? I’ve got to put an entire team together – if this shit is going down tomorrow, it’s a no-go,” Cooper tells you.

You narrow your eyes and decide to trust them. “Shipment’s coming in from La Paz in a  week .”

“We can make that work, boss,” Wilson looks at Cooper. “It’ll be tight, but we can do it.”

Cooper agrees. “Ok. We’ll be in touch. Keep your burner on you.”

They each offer you a handshake and you reluctantly accept. You want to get home, have to get home but it doesn’t mean your conscience isn’t going to bother you a little bit.

Just a little bit.

Snitches were the lowest life form imaginable as far as you are concerned. The code against becoming a rat was deeply ingrained in you, but these are extreme circumstances – there is no code you wouldn’t break to get back to Ian.

Signing the deal two days later was very cold, official and businesslike. You read over the document they hand  you, you give them all of the information you have. It almost feels like you aren’t betraying the man who took you in and is better to you in a few years than your own father was for your entire life. Once the ink is on the page you have to force yourself to take a breath. You push up your hoodie sleeve and touch your fingertips to the tattoo on your forearm. ‘Lado sur siempre’. 

South Side Forever.

Damn right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you owe him that you’d do all of this? All this trouble? Nobody was looking for you, you were free.” Cooper leans forward and studies your face.
> 
> You stub out your cigarette and blow smoke out of the corner of your mouth. As a reply, you pull the neckline of your t-shirt down low enough for him to see the tattoo over your chest. You watch him read it and he looks back and forth between your eyes and the tattoo. It clicks and you see his facial expression change.
> 
> “Oh...”
> 
> “Yeah. Like I said. We got history. S’why I gotta go home.”
> 
> He looks down at his hands; thinking, nodding. He gets up and pats you in the shoulder. “Well let’s get you there.”

The day after the raid the crew is scrambling, having taken a major hit to business. 

Over 100 kilos of coke, guns, manpower and an established supply house - gone.

Guillermo and several others are in custody; Javier is in the hospital with a bullethole in his shoulder and Pedro is dead.

You don’t mind so much about that last part.

They don’t scoop you up right away like you thought they would and you haven’t heard from Agent Cooper since you signed your deal. You act like you are just as shaken by the raid as anybody; ranting and raving about wanting to slit throats and break Guillermo out and fuck that _rata pendejo_ who sold him out to DEA.

Another sicario quickly takes over his people and he takes an immediate dislike to you. He doesn’t trust his predecessors' judgement in taking you in so you find yourself very much dropped from the inner circle you’ve become accustomed to being in. Whether or not they have proof, you were conveniently not at the safehouse for the delivery and that puts you at the very top of their suspect list. It would only be a matter of time before they either have proof or decide that you are guilty without any.

You are starting to think the DEA has fucked you over; you’ve lost any footing you’d gained since getting to Mexico, you’d never see Ian again, and you were going to take a bullet in the back of the head for the effort. 

You have just fallen asleep on your bed with your gun in your hand when they kick in your door. As you scramble to orient yourself, you are thrown face down on the floor. Your hands are cuffed behind your back and you’re dragged out of the apartment without being allowed to put your boots on. It is the only time being in handcuffs was a relief (well there was that one other time, but that’s besides the point). It's not broken but blood drips out of your nose down the front of your t-shirt as you sit in the back of the car. The metallic taste lingers in your mouth hours after you are taken to a DEA safehouse where they allow you to shower, give you fresh clothes, and a meal. 

“You coulda let me put my fuckin boots on,” you say to Agent Cooper when he arrives. “I liked those boots.”

He smirks at you. “Had to make it look real, didn’t we? You comfortable? Need anything?”

“Nah. How much longer am I gonna be here?”

“Another day, maybe two. The wheel of justice -”

“Move like fuckin’ molasses,” you complete his sentence. He laughs and sits opposite you. “What took you so fucking long? I thought I was gonna get my head blown off-”

“What’s your connection to Ian Gallagher?” he asks out of the blue. Your eyes go wide and he laughs again.

“How did you -”

“Didn’t occur to you to use a proxy server on your computer? Some kind of encryptions to hide your search history? It was smashed up but you didn't even scrub it when you threw it away." He takes out a cigarette and lights it, offering the pack to you.

“I don’t know what any of that shit means.”

“It means that as soon as you made contact with our office, we put you under surveillance. I’m not about to risk anybody’s life on a trap. We found your laptop in the garbage and got access to your hard drive. You did a lot of reading up on someone named Ian Gallagher in Chicago. Seems he’s getting locked up. At the same facility you requested to go to in your deal, instead of getting a pardon and going free.”

You take a long drag and exhale out of your nose. 

“You going to go after him? Old beef?” he guesses.

“Gallagher? No. We got history but I’m um... I’m going to protect him. I have to protect him.” You squirm uncomfortably in your seat and rub the outside corner of your eye with your thumb the way you always do when someone tries to make you talk about your _feelings_.

Cooper nods thoughtfully and flicks his cigarette in the ashtray in front of you. “Michael Gallagher. You took his name,” he observes.

You swallow; your throat was suddenly very dry. You suck your cheek in and bite down.

“What do you owe him that you’d do all of this? All this trouble? Nobody was looking for you, you were free.” Cooper leans forward and studies your face.

You stub out your cigarette and blow smoke out of the corner of your mouth. As a reply, you pull the neckline of your t-shirt down low enough for him to see the tattoo over your chest. You watch him read it and he looks back and forth between your eyes and the tattoo. It clicks and you see his facial expression change.

“Oh...”

“Yeah. Like I said. We got history. S’why I gotta go home.”

He looks down at his hands; thinking, nodding. He gets up and pats you in the shoulder. “Well let’s get you there.”

You’ll say one thing for federal agents, they travel in style. Your first time flying anywhere was going to be on a private plane, in DEA custody, but still a pretty choice way to get home. Your palms are sweating with anxiety and your knee won’t stop bouncing. Sleep was almost impossible the night before. You laid awake most of the night remembering every last movie you’d ever seen that involved a plane crash. Whenever you started to nod off, you’d see planes colliding with trees, wings being broken off and people flying out of the burning fuselage. How you would have killed for a Xanax or a Halcion or any one of the other meds you’d given Ian that helped him sleep. 

Once on board the plane and they take the cuffs off. You buckle your seatbelt and push the shade up to look out the window, scanning the area surrounding the airstrip. You are going to be paranoid about the cartel coming after you at least until you’re in the air. You know too well what they are capable of doing to you as you’d witnessed them doing it to others. 

The roar of the engines serves as enough of a distraction; it’s a much louder sound than you expected. Your body tenses up, you have a white-knuckle grip on both armrests. Your breathing is labored and you are forced back in your seat as the plane speeds up. Your teeth clamp down on your lower lip until you taste blood. 

“Goddammit, Gallagher you’d better be happy to see me,” you think. 

Eventually a dreamless sleep comes and when you wake up again, someone is nudging you to see if you want something to eat or drink. You aren’t expecting a five-star meal but you are slightly disappointed to learn that there isn’t any booze on board. Waking up, you were disoriented. The plane is still in the air but you see mostly blackness out your window; you aren’t sure how long you’d been sleeping. 

“Almost there,” Cooper tells you.

They remind you that you are a prisoner and therefore have to be cuffed again after landing. You’ll be processed, photographed and fingerprinted, and strip-searched. None of this is new or news to you. You’ll be in a cell by dinner.

Your ears pop something vicious as the plane descends. It slices through the dark cotton candy clouds and you get your first aerial look at Chicago. It's beautiful and Ian is down there somewhere. The landing feels like it happens more quickly than the take off. You watch the city getting closer, buildings become more distinct in the darkness. The yellow and orange tinge of the city lights outline grid-like patterns below you and suddenly you see a vast area of complete blackness. It gives you a sick feeling; looking like it was a void at the edge of the world. Blinking twice, you realize you're flying over Lake Michigan and then you feel miniscule. The plane unexpectedly banks to the left, tilting the wings as it turns. Descending even faster now you see the bright indigo lights demarking the runways at O’Hare. The tires make contact, the plane bounces back up and then touch down a second time. Just when you think the worst is over, there is a frightening roar of deceleration and inertia pushes you against the seat. You press your palm to your chest as the plane slows, rumbling along the runway until it comes to a full stop.

“Ok Milkovich. We’re handing you over on the tarmac. You ready?” Wilson unbuckles his belt and points out his window at something you can’t see. You nod and unbuckle your own belt. 

Your knees knock each other as you stand up on unsure legs and they cuff your wrists again. One of the other agents takes your elbow and helps you down the stairs. A black SVU with the words “Illinois Department of Corrections” in big white letters down the side is parked there and two uniformed guards are leaning against it waiting for you. 

“This is it. End of the line,” Agent Wilson squeezes your shoulder and holds a hand out to you. The metal cuffs clink together as you shake his hand and you offer him a quiet ‘thanks’.

The tubby guard opens the rear passenger side door and you duck inside. You have a long time to think on the drive, familiar sights flashing past. You don’t know what you are going to say to Ian when you see him. Your stomach is in knots just thinking about it and that makes you feel like a pussy. 

But when do you ever not feel like a pussy as far as Ian was concerned?

The processing-in procedure is over quickly and you sign off on the form listing everything you were wearing when you arrived. The yellow prison-issued jumpsuit is stiff and itchy and riding up your ass. You sit in an intake area waiting to be assigned to a pod. Your heart is in your throat. 

What if Ian isn’t happy to see you? What if he moved on after you? _FUCK._ What if he fails to turn himself in and takes off for Mexico to look for you?

It's too fucking late and that thought has truly not occurred to you before. 

“This way, Inmate.” A guard’s voice makes you jump back into your body and you mindlessly follow him down a grey hallway, through a common area and up a set of metal stairs. He unlocks cell A22 on the second tier and you carry your pillow, fitted sheet and blanket inside. 

It's bleak. Bleaker than most of the cells you've been held in and on par with the first place you lived in Mexico. You make your bed and lay down, staring at the underside of the empty bunk above yours. Soon, it'll have someone sleeping on it and you wonder if anyone has ever been this happy about being in prison before.

After a mostly inedible breakfast the following morning, you're still feeling sick to your stomach with nerves, not knowing how long you’d have to wait for Ian to arrive. You're on the second tier of the cell block by yourself leaning over the railing looking down at the place that would be your home for the time being. There are a lot of brown faces around and they make you uneasy – the cartel might have a reach long enough to find you in here. 

A familiar profile catches your attention in your periphery. You see the back of Ian’s head – at least you think it’s Ian’s head – this person has black hair. He is obviously new, carrying his cot coverings like you just had. As he climbs the stairs ahead of the female guard you can’t take your eyes off of him. He turns into cell A22 and the guard shuts the door behind him. 

Rushing to stop the guard before she walks away, you ask to be let into your cell.

“My cellie just got here. I wanna make sure he don’t take my bunk,” you tell her. She says she has to go clock out but she calls out to another guard.

“Peters’ll let you in.” She walks off in the opposite direction. 

A balding, white guard unlocks the cell and you crack the knuckles of your left hand as you step inside.

He turns around at the sound of the door opening and it is all you can do not to jump into his arms. His mouth drops open, his eyes are wide, looking shocked like he isn’t sure if he's really seeing you in front of him. He is just as beautiful as he was the last time you saw him. All you can do was smirk. The cell door slams shut before you speak.

“I rolled on the cartel I was workin’ for and in exchange, guess who gets to pick where he gets locked up?”

"Holy fuck...” his voice is a whisper and you see the slightest hint of tears welling up.

“Oh hey, I got bottom so, you’re on top.” You strut by him and stretch out on your bunk, your ankles crossed and your hands behind your head. You are the definition of cool and cocky even though your heart is battering against your ribs. 

Ian grins and rushes over to climb on top of you, slotting one of his legs between yours. He pins one of your wrists to the mat and sweetly strokes your cheek with the other. You let your eyes drift down to his lips and back up to the green eyes you’ve missed almost more than the rest of him. Holding the back of his head, his hair was just as soft as you remembered, even though it was the wrong color. You pull him down to you just a little and he moves in the rest of the way on his own.

The first kiss is everything you’d been missing. His lips are soft, plump and perfect, he teases your tongue with his and you open your mouth to let him invade. 

He releases your wrist and threads your fingers together, pinning your hand above your head again. Together you're rutting firmly against each other, each of you moaning softly every time you need to stop kissing long enough to breathe. He brushes his cheek against yours, turning your head so he can suck on your neck. Feeling his weight on top of you and his teeth nipping at your skin and his body grinding against you is almost more than you could handle. 

Your free hand finds its way to the front of his jumpsuit and you pull the snaps open. You hear him chuckle deep in his throat and he licks behind your earlobe before taking it between his teeth. 

He whispers your name in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. He pushes himself up to a plank position and while holding himself up with one arm, he opens the front of your jumpsuit. You watch his eyes find the place over your heart that bears his name and he blinks. As he pulls the collar of your undershirt down, he looks as if he’d forgotten it was there. He wets his lips and lovingly kisses the tattoo over and over, only pausing to tease your nipple with the tip of his tongue. Both of your hands are caressing the back of his head, your eyes are squeezed shut, letting the sensation of him actually being there take you over. 

“You came back for me?” He kisses his way back up to your neck and buries his nose there, inhaling you.

“Course I did.” Your arms wrap around him and you hold him as closely as you can. He lets his hips fall to one side and you roll to follow him so you are able to lay face to face.

“You filled out a little,” he teases and pokes you in the stomach.

You raise an eyebrow and rest your cheek on the heel of your hand.

“I came all this way, putting my ass on the choppin’ block, for you to tell me I got fuckin’ fat?”

He snorts a laugh and traces his fingertips across your cheek. 

“Can’t believe you’re here, Mick...I thought I was hallucinating or something...”

“Nah. It’s me, Gallagher.”

“Thought I was gonna die in here,” he wipes his eye with his hand.

“Yeah, me too – why else would I be here? Gotta protect your pansy ass.”

With that, he chuckles and pulls you in for a kiss. “I love you.”

After all these years, all the shit that’s gone down between you; these recent years of separation and he still steals your breath and throws you off-guard with those words. You had been afraid that Ian’s feelings for you had cooled, died off or that he’d moved on, thinking he’d never see you again. The look on his face when he saw you proved you wrong. You feel it, you see it; the sincerity shining in his eyes. You love him too - of course you do; more than you’ve ever loved anyone or anything. You just wish it was easy for you to tell him that.

Instead, you ask him how much longer you have to wait for him to fuck you.

He laughs, his bright, joyful, boisterous laugh that you thought you’d never hear again. You both sigh and smile at each other. Because Ian knows you as well as he does, he knows the words don’t come easily. But he also knows that you coming back for him was an expression of your love. You’ve always been better at showing him that you were down for him and in this for life.

Your hand finds the dip of his waist and you give it a squeeze. 

“Seriously Gallagher - I’ve had a long couple of days, we gonna bang or what?”

He laughs again, shaking his head before pulling you back into him, wrapping you in his long arms. 

“Thank you, Mick.”

His shoulder shudders and he starts breathing heavily; you’re afraid he’s about to break down altogether. You kiss his eyelids and cup his face, gently stroking your thumb back and forth along his cheekbone. You lock eyes until his breathing slows down again. Letting yourself relax against him and nuzzling his cheek, before you know it you’re falling asleep, fully enveloped by someone you’ve loved since you were seventeen.

You’re still wrapped around each other when you wake up god-only-knows how much later. The lights are out and it's silent as the grave on the other side of your locked door. You take a deep breath and try not to fully awaken. The bunk is small and cramped but you fit fine, it’s Ian’s lanky body that doesn’t fit very well. You shift back towards the wall a little, thinking you’re giving him some more room. 

“Come back,” he says in a sleepy voice, his eyes still closed.

“Isn’t your ass hanging off the side?” You ask. “I’m making room for you.”

Ian’s eyes are still closed but he smiles and shifts closer. “Thanks.” 

Moving his thigh, he brushes up against your crotch and one eye pops open. His hand is suddenly cupped over you, feeling how hard you are, applying gentle pressure. You can’t remember the last time you woke up with a raging hard-on – come to think of it, it was probably that last morning you woke up in Texas with Ian next to you.

“Guess you missed me, huh?” The prick asks while the corners of his mouth try to curl upwards.

You roll your eyes. “Me? Miss you? What gives you that impression? It just got too fuckin’ hot down there for me.” You’re trying not to rut into his hand but _fuck_ there’s only so much strength left in you.

“Oh, ok. You let yourself get locked up because you hated the heat? That makes sense.” The sarcastic jerk starts roughly rubbing his hand against your length, there are a maddening number of layers of fabric between his hand and your cock.

“Exactly,” you nod, biting your lip.

Ian’s hand moves from your crotch to your hip to your ass. He squeezes your flesh and you’re so hard-up it makes a betraying moan sneak out of your throat before you can think of suppressing it. 

“Oh yeah?” One of his eyebrows quirks up. “You like that?”

He shifts even closer, catching your leg behind the knee before hitching it up over his hip. As he kisses you, he kneads your thigh and then your ass in his giant hand. Your fingers are tightly wrapped in the front of his open jumpsuit. You alternate sucking on each other's tongues and biting each other's lips in a wet, uncoordinated, messy, sloppy, I’ve-missed-you-so-goddamned-much kind of fervor that you both want to get lost in. It takes you beyond your tiny cell, beyond the prison walls – somewhere far away and safe.

It’s Ian who pulls away first. There’s a sheen of sweat already coating your skin and his; your scents are mixing intoxicatingly in the air. He gets off the bunk but doesn’t take his eyes off of you while he toes off his shoes and pulls his arms free of the yellow uniform. It’s not exactly a strip tease but you’re transfixed by the sight of it. 

You run the tip of your tongue across your bottom lip while you watch him undress. He pulls his white t-shirt over his head and you see a light dusting of ginger hair on his chest and stomach. The white prison-issued boxers he’s wearing do absolutely nothing to disguise what’s beneath them.

_Shit – look at him._

“You gonna make me rip your clothes off? We takin’ this prison sex scenario to the next level?” He’s teasing but...you could get into that. That wide smirk on one side of his mouth is revealing his sharp, white canine. He flicks the tip of his tongue against it and raises a brow at you.

You chuckle awkwardly and clear your throat as you get up. His hands hold either side of your face and he’s kissing you so completely that you almost can’t get your hands to cooperate in taking your own clothes off. The snaps pop open down the front of your uniform and you work your arms free while trying not to stop kissing Ian for any amount of time. He pushes the jumpsuit past your hips and hooks his fingers into the waistband of your boxers, which he proceeds to yank all the way down. 

“Fuck, Mick...” 

His hands are all over your back and your ass and he latches his mouth onto your neck. Your arms are behind you, bracing your body on the frame of the upper bunk. It feels like there is nothing but pure electricity running through your veins – you've never felt more alive. Your knees start to give way but he’s got you, and he’s not letting you get away from him again - not even for a moment. You wiggle your legs until you’ve stepped out of your uniform altogether.

“Ian...” You find your voice and scrape your nails up the back of his head. 

Applying pressure to your shoulder, he guides you back down on the bunk. You maneuver under the blanket and you’re both on your sides, face to face, making out like the horny teenagers you once were. You slip easily back into an old, familiar rhythm of jerking each other’s cocks.

"Wanna fuck you," Ian gasps.

“Let me...let me turn over...” It’s all you can do not to moan as loudly as you want to. The walls might be cinderblocks but you’ll be overheard through the ventilation system. You don’t want to give whoever was in the adjacent cell a free show and wanking material. Not right now. You want this to be just you and Ian.

"I wanna see your face," he protests and grabs your arm before you can flip. 

You smirk and cup his cheek. "That's very romantic but this'll be easier." 

He nods in agreement and you turn towards the wall. Ian presses his body into you and he kisses the back of your neck. He knows that's one of your biggest weaknesses and something that turns you on more than most other sexual things. In the old days it didn't matter how pissed off you were at him or at Svetlana or Terry or fucking life in general, if he came up behind you and started ghosting his perfect red velvet mouth on the back of your neck, you were a human puddle of jelly.

Arching your back into him you feel his spit-slick fingers move closer to your entrance. The anticipation is delicious and when he finally makes contact and breaches you, to have to clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle yourself. 

His left arm curls around your chest and he pulls you back into him while he expertly opens you up. Fucking you with his fingers, scissoring them apart inside you, getting you ready for him. He's whispering how much he's missed you and how sexy you are and 'Jesus fuck, Mick - I think you're tighter now than when we were kids…'

"I don't wanna hurt you," he says, concerned. 

"Just do it, Gallagher. Feels so good…"

You push against the cell wall with both hands as he starts to enter you. He’s moving slowly, letting you adjust inch by inch. He pumps his hips, cautious not to give you more than you're ready for. You hiss and moan and slap the wall, grimacing.

"Want me to stop?"

"Don't you fucking dare," you reassure him. "Keep going. Slow."

He shifts his body behind you and digs his fingers into your hip slowly fucking into you. Your eyes are watering and you're positive he'd stop if he saw your face. In truth, yes it hurts but you want it - you want him. He's going slowly enough and you relax letting him eventually fully seat himself. 

"Shit, Mickey…"

You're rocking together in unison, it's slow and purposeful and intense. You despise the term "making love" but over the course of your lives, you and Ian have fucked and you've had sex - what was transpiring on that bunk in your shared cell was something different. 

His breathing is getting more shallow, you know he's not going to last much longer. You reach a hand back and turn your head to capture his mouth. While you're kissing he's stroking you off hard and slow keeping in time with each thrust of his hips. Each time he strikes your core, you get a little louder and Roman candles explode behind your eyelids.

As the icy spikes start to bloom in your spine everything takes on a faster, more frenzied pace.

"God...oh my god…" 

You feel Ian’s cock twitch inside you and he unloads with his mouth buried in your neck. You put your hand on top of his and together you finish yourself off.

It's silent except for the way you're both breathing as you come down. He stays inside you until he's mostly soft and slips out. You clench your ass to avoid a spill - you want to feel him there a while longer.

"You ok?" He asks sweetly. The Authoritative Top is gone and the soft, sweet boy is back. 

"Umm-hmm."

"C'mere."

You cough to hide a yelp of pain as you turn back over to face him. You ache all over and you're thoroughly spent. 

"I love you, Mick."

"Love you too," you whisper. "It ain't always gonna be like this, y'know. This sweet shit." You flick your wrist between the two of you. 

Ian nods. "I know. I'm just gonna enjoy it for as long as it lasts."

"And then?" You cocked your head at him. 

"Then I'll get used to my boyfriend being his usual not-sweet self."

"And I'll get used to my boyfriend driving me fucking nuts again."

Ian smiles wide. "Even that sounds sweet to me right now."

You roll your eyes. "Soft bitch," you tease. 

"Your soft bitch, though."

"Yep. All mine."

As the two of you get into the daily routine of prison life, are assigned to your separate work details and yes, start getting on each other's nerves, you have to remind yourself occasionally of why you came back. Why you chose to make certain sacrifices to get back to him. In the end, you're sure you've made the right choice and you'd do it again. Ian is it for you. 

Over the months that follow, you tell him about Mexico and he tells you what you've missed in the old neighborhood. It seems like you're both afraid to talk about the future but you're holding onto the present. 

For as long as it lasts.


End file.
